


The Other Half

by debit



Category: Animal Factory (2000)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:27:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debit/pseuds/debit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The post card had a picture of a parrot in a tree on the front and scrawl that Earl deciphered as “Thanks” on the back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Half

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beedekka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beedekka/gifts).



The post card had a picture of a parrot in a tree on the front and scrawl that Earl deciphered as “Thanks” on the back. There was no signature, no return address and the postmark, dated twenty days ago, read Panama. He pinned it up, parrot side out, above his bunk where he could see it when he first woke up.

After morning count, Vito brought hot water and his own mug, so Earl made enough coffee for two. While they waited for it to brew, Vito gave the card a look, but didn’t touch it, didn’t say anything until they were out in the yard.

“Lucky little fucker,” he said evenly.

“Well,” Earl said, “it was a good plan.” He nodded at the kid that smiled and murmured his name as they walked by, but didn’t stop.

Vito cut a glance at the kid, then back at Earl. “So, he made it.”

Earl shrugged. “Or close enough. Might have crossed the border for his mail.”

Vito was quiet until they reached the wall and took the empty spot between T.J. and Paul. “They got beaches in Costa Rica?” he asked abruptly.

“Both coasts are nothing but,” Earl said, and felt a smile crook up the side of his mouth when Vito turned his face toward the weak morning sun.

“Lucky little fucker,” he repeated, eyes closed.

*

One of the hacks pulled him out of chow early, and for a second Earl felt his heart stutter, but it turned out his kid brother needed a paper for a class he was otherwise looking to fail. The hack, Kramer, said if his brother got a B, or higher, he’d owe Earl.

A week later Kramer came by his cell alongside the mail cart and handed him another postcard and an envelope.

The postcard was of the ocean this time, palm tree in the foreground, mountains in the distance. The postmark was from Nicaragua. The envelope had no name, no return address, but there was a joint nestled in between a couple of twenty dollar bills, so little Kramer must have got at least his B.

“Probably got an A,” Earl said to Vito during free time in his cell. Paul was outside on a chair, ostensibly watching the game of checkers a few feet away. He gave a thumbs up at the door, so Earl handed Vito the joint and one of the bills.

Vito stuffed the bill in his pocket and pulled out his lighter, but instead of lighting up, spun the wheel and looked at the postcard with a slight frown.

“What?”

“You miss him,” Vito said abruptly.

And it was true. Part of him did miss Ron, missed the way his eyes lit up in gratitude or admiration. A person wouldn’t be normal if they didn’t like being on the receiving end of those kind of looks. “You know he was like the son I never had,” he finally said.

“He was pretty little piece of ass.” Vito lit the joint, took a deep drag, then passed it over.

“I never fucked him.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

“Kind of wanted to,” Earl admitted. “At the start.” He frowned at the joint, then sucked in a lungful of smoke and handed it back.

Vito rolled his eyes. “You think I didn’t know that, you _pendejo_ piece of shit?”

“Ow,” Early said mildly as he exhaled. “My feelings.”

Vito grinned, then took another drag. “Eh. I kinda wanted to nail him too.”

Paul lit up a smoke then tapped the door jamb with his lighter.

Vito pinched out the joint and slipped it into his pocket.

“Hey,” Earl said when he stood up. He tapped the postcard. “You want this?”

Vito looked at the postcard, then at Earl with a puzzled squint. “What for?”

Earl shrugged and said, “I don’t know. You like the ocean right? Something to look at.”

After a slight pause, Vito said, “Thanks.” He tucked it into the pocket with the twenty.

*

Seeman must have put a word or two in the right ear because his old job was suddenly open again.

Earl fiddled with the chair until the seat was at the proper height, then looked through the notes clipped to the reports he had to retype. “What,” he said, after reading a few, “was my replacement an illiterate midget?”

“I think they prefer the term dwarf,” Seeman said.

Earl set down the papers. “No shit?”

“I’m just messing with you. He was a regular guy, just short. Didn’t have your way with words.”

“Very few do.” He grabbed a stack of blank forms and loaded up the typewriter, then cracked his knuckles and went to work.

Seeman watched him work down the stack then said, “You’re okay now.” A statement, not a question.

Earl said, “I’m always okay.”

That got him a snort of laughter. “Have it your way,” he said.

Earl was almost done when Seeman said in an idle voice, “You know, they found an iron bar at the dump. Figure Decker must have used it to stop the crusher.” He looked at Earl over the top of his mug. “Of course, now we have orders to watch the garbage trucks being loaded, so it could never work again.”

“Who’d want to leave all this? Here,” Earl said. “Your reports.”

.*

Earl had read about the State’s budget problems, so he wasn’t really surprised when the prison lost their basic cable and they had to settle for local broadcast. Saturday afternoon was never scintillating, television wise, but he supposed even an old Western was better than golf.

“All the Indians are Mexicans,” Vito said.

Earl peered at the television screen. “Really?”

“Look. Mexican, Mexican, Mexican.”

“No one is who they seem,” T.J. said with the wisdom of the profoundly stoned. “Maybe Vito is really an Indian.”

“Sure,” Vito said. “Lemme show you my wigwam.”

“Wigwam,” Earl said later, in the laundry room.

“Maybe it’ll catch on.”

“You know the union puts out a list of slang for the rookie hacks. What the fuck are they going to think when they read wigwam is code for cock?”

Vito just cracked a smile and tossed a load of sheets into the dryer.

*

They finished off the joint the next day in the empty classroom. It wasn’t much, just enough for a small buzz. Earl let out his last lungful of smoke and admired the way it tinged the golden slant of the afternoon sun blue.

Vito let the empty paper butt in the improvised roach clip burn to ash, then bent the paperclip back into shape.

They leaned against the wall in companionable silence, nowhere to be, nothing in particular to do except enjoy the quiet. There was plenty of time before chow and Vito finally seemed to be over the Ron thing.

“Hey,” Earl said and bumped his shoulder. “You want to get off?”

“Are you sure?” Vito rolled his head to the side and gave Earl a lazy, half lidded stare. “I mean, I’m not pretty.”

Or maybe not. “No,” Earl said. “But neither am I.”

Vito gave him a long, evaluating look. “Maybe if you let your hair grow.”

“And cover up these ears?”

Vito let out a laugh and said, “Dumbass.” He reached up and tugged on one, fingers warm and rough.

Earl tilted his head, let Vito’s fingertips slip from his ear and over the curve of his skull. “So? You want to?”

After a slow blink Vito finally said, “Yeah. I wanna.” He tugged Earl away from the wall until they stood face to face and settled his hands on Earl’s hips.

It was always easy with Vito, always good. They’d come to an understanding a long time ago; this wasn’t about power or reputation, just comfort and feeling good. He slipped a hand around Vito’s half hard cock and gave it a few pulls, nice and slow, until it was hard and heavy in his palm.

“That’s it, baby,” Vito murmured. “Touch my wigwam.”

Earl huffed a laugh into Vito’s shoulder. “You want to get off or make jokes?”

“I can’t do both?” Vito said as he eased Earl’s zipper down.

But once he got a rhythm going, the only thing Vito said was in a guttural rush of Spanish, too low and rough for Earl to make out actual words, but he thought he probably got the gist of it. He lined up their cocks, leaned in and stroked them together.

When he came, Vito groaned deep into Earl’s ear, and that was enough to push him over the edge too.

Earl rested his forehead on Vito’s shoulder and breathed in.

Vito had a hand on the back of his skull. His thumb brushed back and forth over a bit of stubble that Earl had missed in the shower. “Getting sloppy in your old age,” he said, his voice a little gruff.

“Mm” Earl hummed in agreement, “That’s why I keep you around. Who else is going to point out my shortcomings?”

“Dumbass,” Vito said again with a quick squeeze to the back of Earl’s neck. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up and go for chow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Earl's talk with Ron. He said (paraphrasing) half the key to doing time was keeping busy.


End file.
